Curse of the Living, Wrath of the Slain
by KnightVanguard
Summary: Fantasy AU. In the heart of a once-prosperous nation, behind the shining walls of a great city, there grows a festering plague so terrible that no blade can defeat it, no horse can outrun it, and no man can stop it. It is hell on earth. The only question now is who will still walk it when the day is done..
1. Francis

**_Wrath of the Living, Curse of the Slain_**

_Walls can only protect you from the monsters at the gates_

_What about the enemy within them?_

The city of Ravenholm, a settlement aptly named for it's most common visitor, was like a titanic beacon in the night sky. Most cities were confined to the ground and whatever height that a nearby hill or mountain could sustain, barring them from the glorious towers in Ravenholm. Fires burned brightly along it's walls, and in those great towers there was an abundance of light. And as the capital of an empire, this was as it should be. Both from within and without, it seemed to be the shining vanguard of a new era of civilization... the age of science. At least, that was what many would have you believe. From a distance, it seemed unmarred by the struggles of the world, the conflicts that shed blood with steel all around it in the many neighboring settlements. At first glance, even within the city, this was what it looked like.

But for every light, there is a shadow.

As of the past few months, the world had been besieged by sickness, due in part to a band of foreign refugees from across the sea who had lived only long enough to spread a foul illness through all the cities they could reach. It was not a particularly interesting topic, save for that they had managed to reach most of the larger coastal cities in a matter of hours. By way of study, it was determined that the sickness they brought was, while particularly disorientating, not lethal and lasted for at most a week. This was all that had been said of the sickness, and no one had any reason to believe otherwise. So despite the grievous coughing fits of it's people, the city of Ravenholm was about as alive as ever. Common citizens walked through the streets, vendors shouted from the market square, as they had the week before. The typical sounds of the city were loud and almost reassuring, a sharp contrast to the newest sound they heard; that of marching feet.

A force of city guardsmen, dubbed the Raven Watch by their charges, were marching straight down the city streets in an unusual fashion, in that they were not only in an organized formation, but that they were taking up the whole center of the road, and were by their own hands drawing a wagon. Their armor was freshly shined, and as they walked they made a great noise, like the clanking one might expect to hear from a kitchen. Such a march was truly abnormal, but the people of Ravenholm had learned to trust their protectors implicitly. Therefore, no one suspected them nor the wagon behind them, the cargo of which was concealed by a large black tarp.

No one, perhaps, save for a beefy man leaning against one of the vendor stalls. Of the many faces in the marketplace, his was no more distinct than anyone else with features more or less hinting at a Northern heritage, hair cut so short that he was nearly bald, and a well-maintained beard. He was clad in a thick black vest, with a tunic underneath that left his arms ultimately bare. His legs were wrapped in similar tough leather, bearing numerous pale scratches here and there that trailed all the way down to heavy boots that bore a crude metal plating around the toe. The man's hands were covered by surprisingly well-made armored gloves that when clenched, formed a dangerous iron fist. Along the knuckles were round metal plates that seemed to be made for punching things without hurting the man. His gray eyes followed the wagon and the soldiers distrustfully, until a voice called out to him from behind.

"Francis! What'cha doin out here by yourself?" called an innocent, female voice from behind him as a small child padded towards him, smiling up at him. Francis, as the girl called him, looked down. Like him, she had grey eyes and Northern features, like the sea-men of old. And though it seemed he had not smiled in a long time, her presence brought a peaceful expression to him.

"Just watching them, Neema. I hate guards..." He sighed.

"I know." she said, grinning up at him. "But you know, just standing here and glaring at them isn't gonna do nuffin. Besides, they're not all bad. One of them gave me his bread jus' the other day."

Francis shook his head. "Did he? Must be a nice guy." He seemed about to continue, before Neema started to cough painfully. "Neema, you're still sick? What are you doin' out here, then?! Come on, back in the house."

"But Fraaaaanciiiis! I'm almost better!" the little girl whined at him.

"Neema, come on." He placed a hand gently on her back and began to push at her until she began to head towards the building she had come out of, with him following close behind.

The inside of their home was fairly bland. Francis barely made enough coin as was to keep the home, though he was climbing the ladder higher every day as a mercenary. But what little coin he kept after, was used to provide for his sister her food, and on rare occasion, something for their house. What that left them with was an accumulation of several years- a table with three chairs, a fireplace with fuel, food in the cabinets, their own fancy little outhouse just outside, and warm beds with thick blankets. It was meager in comparison with many others, but Francis did what he could, since his mother's passing. Neema had only her big brother to care for her now, and by god, Francis would make sure she lived a good life. So far, he'd done pretty well with that.

Together they went up the stairs to Neema's room, where she got back into her bed- albeit not without a gentle push from Francis.

"Now, I don't want you getting up in the middle of the day again. You need to rest up, y'hear?"

Neema gave an exasperated sigh. "Yees, big brother, I hear you."

He favored her with a smile. "Good. I'll be down stairs if you need me- just call out." Then he made his way back down. She'd be okay.

After he sat down at the table, deep in thought, he began to drift off into a fitful sleep.

Neema did not stir the whole night, and he hadn't expected her to. In the morning, when he woke, he set about finding the ingredients for a hearty stew. Not her favorite, but he knew all too well the healing power of a good meal, and it was something that Neema could use.

When he opened the door to bring it to her, he found her up with a half-burnt candle and a book. Despite himself, he grinned. "Caught ya."

All at once she looked up, startled by his sudden appearance. "Oh-hey!"

He shook his head. "Easy. I'm just bringing you some stew." He walked over, setting a steaming bowl with a spoon in it on her crude nightstand. "Have you been up all night reading?"

"...yes." she replied sheepishly.

"Mother's head would explode if she were here." he chuckled, shaking his head. "Tell me it's somethin good, at least?"

In reply, Neema put a finger on her bage and halfway closed the book, raising it so that Francis could see the spine, on which was printed something. It made him scowl briefly.

"...you're gonna have to tell me, Neema, I can't read all that well."

That brought a sad smile to her face. "It's a riding manual, Francis. I'm gonna be a horse-rider one day, just like you. Just like Father and like your friends."

He was uncertain, then. While he did call them his friends... no. They were not worthy of being examples for his sister, and he made a note that he would, perhaps, need to change their representation to her before she started trying to take after them.

"Oh, yea? Well, I guess I'll have to start teaching you, then. Soon as Arlan comes back with my damn horse..."

"I'd really like that!" she exclaimed joyously, and for a moment he could believe that she was not still stricken by illness.

All at once there was a loud pounding on the door to the house. The noise was so sudden, Francis nearly jumped out of his skin. "Oh, joy... I'll be right back." Neema gave him an understanding nod, and with that he stood, heading downstairs. Even as he got close, the pounding became more insisted, almost frenzied.

"Relax! Relax! I'm comin!"

As he reached the door and opened it, he snarled "What the hell is so-"

A rushing body slammed into him, falling upon him and bellowing in rage. His eyes seemed the color of a harsh red sun, and before Francis knew what was happening, the man was raining blows upon him. They were strong blows, strikes with claws he didn't know a man could possess, drawing small scratches across his bare arms. In the span of a few moments, however, Francis regained his senses, and with both hands he seized his attacker, hurling him up into the air towards the doorway. "What the fuck is your problem?!" he bellowed.

There was no response from the attacker. As he tried to regain his footing, Francis noted that his skin was gray like as, and..

There was blood around his mouth.

Something was very very wrong. Francis stood back, raising his armored fists. "Bring it, you ugly son of a bitch!" he roared, in an effort to intimidate him into leaving before things got worse.

As if in response to his challenge, the man-thing leapt forward, trying to pounce on Francis before a smart swing of his gauntlet knocked the flying body off course, sending him crashing down to his left. There, he rose again, driving towards him and hollering at the top of his lungs. Vaguely, he heard Neema call out to him, but at the moment he knew there was no way for her to be in danger, so long as he dealt with this man.

Stopping the rush with a well-timed strike of his elbow, Francis drew back and struck him in the jaw, his armored knuckles making a sickening crack as the blow slid through the man's face and, to his surprise, cratered his entire face with a squelching noise. With the force of the attack still dissipating, the invader was sent staggering backward, collapsing against the door, spattering it red.

All things considered, Francis knew too well that a single hit shouldn't have killed him. He hadn't been trying to kill him, he really hadn't.

...but he did.

Unless someone could survive having their head turned into a pulp. By the hellish look in his eyes, he may very well have. He was down for the moment, however, and that was all Francis needed. With his left arm, he lifted the unconscious/dead man and hurled him out the door onto the street, catching a brief glimpse into the market square. It was chaos. There were people running everywhere, a lot of them with that same red-orange glow and ashen skin of the man he had just beaten. Screams echoed all through the square, and even as he opened the door, he was spotted. It was all he could do to slam the door behind his aggressor before the nearest men, infected with whatever madness was upon them, tried to run in through the door. Fortunately they seemed to have forgotten how to operate a door, for the moment being trapped on the other side.

"Oh...Man. What the hell.." he wheezed as he got his breath. Then he jerked his head towards the stairs, bounding towards and then up them quickly, into Neema's room. Immediately he was gripped with horror.

The window was broken.

Neema was on the floor.

There was more than one man standing in the room.

Before him stood a man of average height and of muscular build. He was clad in blue tunic with heraldry, worn ragged and bleeding form several spots. Another goddamned monster, because in his eyes was a killing intent that Francis knew no living man could ever harbor. Without hesitation, the man leaped forward at Francis, tackling him to the ground and mauling him with razor sharp claws that seemed to have taken the place of his fingers, gouging long, bloody trenches along his exposed arms before Francis struck back, his fist landing solidly in the beast's face. While his opponent was stunned, he seized the doorway and hauled himself up using it. As he rose to standing, he reached out, seizing the blue man's throat in an iron grasp, hefting him into the air before slamming him down on the floor as violently as he could manage. Then he whirled, gripping the man's tunic and slamming his head into the wall, before flipping him and thrusting him out the window to what ought to be his death. Without waiting to hear him hit the ground, he turned to Neema.

What he beheld struck his heart with grief.

Her arm was mauled horribly, and her stomach... oh, god. Her stomach was ripped out. It was on the floor. And her eyes drifted slowly towards Francis.

"F-francis... Francis..."

He was at her side in a flash, cradling her. "No! NO! Neema! Please, God, no! You can't go, goddamnit! You're not- you're gonna be fine!" he babbled, his voice cracking.

"It hurts."

"Yeah...I know it does, darling... I know." Her eyes started to glaze over. Words were on her lips that, ultimately, she had not the strength to voice. Then she was still.

"Neema?"

"NEEMA!"


	2. Louis

_**Madness made Flesh**_

Just before the chaos, an hour or so before noon, the halls of the Franklin Brothers' estate were eerily quiet. It was usual for it to be a fairly hushed environment- scribes tended not to be fond of noise- but even then, there was always the peculiar scribbling sounds, the ever present music of writing. And for a man named Louis, this was a soothing sound. Progress.

Which is why when that sound wasn't around anymore, he noticed.

With a heavy sigh, he set about looking through one of the windows. Ravenholm was laid before him, a grand sight that almost let him forget the deathly silence in the estate. For those who were well informed (Or, in Louis' case, the ones who could overhear things rather well), there were plenty of rumors to explain the absence of the many scribes. Rumors of people being attacked on the street, of maddened men racing about biting people. It was not difficult to frighten the higher classes of society when facing them with physical danger rather than one they could confront intellectually.

All of that didn't really matter to Louis, though. He knew why. It didn't change anything.

He was still one of...maybe four people manning the estate. Not one of them was a scribe, so by default, they would be behind. While Louis had been more or less selected as a manager or director for the efforts of the scribes, he had to admit in his own mind that he wasn't as great as he was sold to be. It had helped him get promoted, sure, and he'd been lucky.

Nevertheless, they would be losing an entire day's work. That was bad. Despite his best efforts, he hadn't convinced anyone to come in that hadn't already been there. The Franklin brothers would not be happy with that. Oh well.

The reality at the moment was that he had the highest position, of the people who were on hand at the moment. They really weren't going to get any work done, so Louis didn't plan on trying to make them. He certainly wasn't. With the silent halls- and no real connection to the other people in the building so that he might talk to them- there wasn't anything to do. Still, he had a good feeling that they'd get more people later, and just maybe get something done. But for now, he decided to head towards the roof of the building to get some fresh air, passing by the opulent glass windows that the Brothers had installed to view their fine city.

It seemed so peaceful. So quiet. It was absolutely a bonus, having this window so high up on the tower, but Louis had always personally had a preference for the roof. That way, he had nothing between him and his beloved city. As he opened the thin wooden door, he took a deep breath and smiled, inhaling the scent of Ravenholm. And... something else. Something foul, something close that he felt needed to be removed. So he began to walk around the tower, looking for the source, when he nearly tripped on something turning a corner. As he looked down, he let loose a sharp gasp and jumped back.

There was a dead man on his roof. His neck had been crushed to an unnaturally malleable state, so that his head lolled about limply. Brutal gashes were laid into his chest as though he had somehow been clawed by an animal. His chest no longer rose, and blood dried in a pool around his mutilated corpse.

All Louis could do was stare. He'd always heard of the horror that men felt when they watched another human being die in front of them. But until now, he had never figured he'd witness it firsthand.

There was no telling how long he stood there, staring at the man who lay dead before him. Louis began to wonder who he was- what he had done for a living, what had happened to him- and it ensnared him. Somewhere deep inside him, he knew all too well that it was only a way to avoid a panic, but for now there was nothing else. In the background, a sound akin to wheezing became just barely audible.

But as he stood there, something inside him started telling him to run. To get away. Something's wrong. He's dead, you can't help him, save your self.

Louis paid no heed to the voice from within, the instinct, until something reached out and seized him around the neck, a big slimy rope or something. In that same moment, it began to squeeze, crushing the life out of him. For a brief instant, he was numb. So num, he barely felt it, until it began to pull. After that, a fire was stirred in his heart, and there was but one thing on his mind.

_FIGHT!_

Rallying to the challenge against his very existence, Louis turned. He seized the slimy object around his neck, and saw that it came from what was once a man, now a beast with cancerous growths all over it's face. Tapping into a reservoir of new power, Louis tightened his grip, and then with all his might hauled the tongue towards him violently. His attacker fell to the ground, thrashing, as he reeled it in closer. There was no longer any pressure around his neck, so he was free to move, when the creature came into his reach, dangling it's limp tongue as it tried to stand.

There was a brief moment of hesitation in him,dispelled all at once when he bounded forward, drew back with his foot, and then kicked the beast in the ribs with all his pent-up anger, rewarded with a satisfying crack. The beast rolled, swiping at him as it escaped, ripping the leg of his clothes and leaving him a long, shallow gash that halted his assault for a moment as he cried out. "SHIT! SHIIIT!"

Then the man-turned-monster was upon him, clawing at his face. He raised his arms to shield his face, waiting for only a few seconds before he retaliated, striking into the plagued mass of flesh around his attacker's face. Foul liquid whose origins he did not wish to contemplate splashed out over his fist as his foe staggered back.

Louis took the opportunity to draw back before the beast could recover. He looked around for something, anything, that could tip the scale in his favor. And he found it with the slain man who had come before him; a long, triangle-shaped dagger with a dangerously sharp edge. Diving towards it, he tried not to think about how he was stealing from a corpse, only that if he didn't, he'd join that corpse. Ripping the blade out of it's sheathe on the man's hip, Louis turned to face the monster, just in time to see it's long, slimy tongue darting towards him. In a hasty motion he swung the dagger, cleaving through the flying tongue and extracting a shrill shriek from the monster. Instinct told him to rush the thing while it was in pain, and this he did. His eyes seemed to lose focus, as he came within range. Bloody gashes formed along his arms, but his sharp blade struck true, sinking into the creature and driving it to the ground, leaving the dagger to fall with him.

Louis stood over his downed foe, his eyes wide and veins flooded with fire, gasping for breath as the man- the thing- who had nearly taken his head off- lay beaten and broken. In his heart, he knew that this thing would get back up if he were to let it be. So rather than leave it to return, he raised his foot, and stomped on it's head.

_WHAM, WHAM, WHAM, WHAM_

It stopped moving. Then the horror set in. He had just killed another man.

"Oh...Oh god. Oh man..." His eyes flicked about, searching for someone, anyone, finding nothing more than a dead, eerie silence, trying desperately to distract himself from a terrible revelation.

He had killed another being.

And he had enjoyed it. Tears fell down his face, even as he walked. There would be time for that later. For now, he would see what was going on outside. When he reached the edge, he saw very little at first, which itself was disturbing with the view he had from the tower. There were supposed to be people walking the streets, maybe some on the rooftops, fixing things.

Where were they?

His unspoken question was answered as he heard a great, terrifying howl from the southeastern districts of Ravenholm. It was a sound he would not soon forget, that heralded a mob of people running down the street into his view. They were all screaming- and not far behind was a second mob, this one running much faster as the pursuit continued.

For the first time, the shining beacon of order was cast into the light of chaos and fear.

This was going to hell.

_I need to get out of here._


	3. Zoey

_**Our friends become foes**_

For most citizens of Ravenholm, an elementary education was all that was required to make their way through the world. The uniquely mandatory system provided them with a basis of everything they would need to know to be...well, intelligent. For some, it was not enough, and in the case of a young woman named Zoey, this was just the case. Seeking a higher education, she had applied for the prestigious Ravenholm Academy, a relatively new construction that was itself unique; unlike the other places of higher learning, this one was not restricted to those of the upper class. Open to all people with a will to learn and the ratings to prove it, Zoey was a student that very first year of it's opening.

By now, it was just barely halfway through the year, and she had been made to understand that while reading books was always a good thing, she needed to be focusing on what she had been taught rather than reading old ghost stories. In a way, she supposed, it did make sense. Though she was a very well-learned person already, she had spent most of her time off-topic, thinking about the lore she's read, and for that she was often belted across the knuckles with a stick. None of that mattered today, though. Today was a happy day. She was at home, in her old bed, in her parent's house, away from all the dorms and the buzzing activity of the Academy.

Having napped most of the day after arriving (Something she was not proud of- but then, they understood she needed her rest), she was awakened by the sound of raised voices.

Correction: Today is not a happy day. She yawned quietly, hoping to remain undetected until she was fully awake. They must have gotten a letter or something to have raised their voices like that.

...oh. Right. _That_ letter. The one saying she dropped out.

Fun.

Slowly, the voices died down. Zoey pulled on her clothes, common white clothing with her favorite red surcoat and plain boots. There was no real haste in her action, for she had no interest in facing her mother's wrath nor the battle that would go on between her father and her mother. She found it aggravating that every night they were in the same house since their divorce, they raged at one another constantly. Truth be told she had always favored her father over her mother, because she HAD left him for another man who, in their only daughter's opinion, was a scumbag. But she would never say that out loud.

When she finally came upon the scene, her mother seemed rather livid, and was about to go into another rant before her father interrupted, looking up with a kind smile on his face. "Hey, Zoey. Sleep well?"

"Yea. Thanks, dad." She quickly pulled up a seat on one end of the table, making absolutely certain she wasn't too far from either of them. It tended to make her mother nervous. Speaking of which...

"Zoey..." her mother began slowly. _Here it comes..._ "...Why did you abandon your education?"

_Damn. I hate being right sometimes._

"Well... to be honest, mother, I just... wasn't feeling it. I thought it would be general learning, but they're trying to train me for a specific thing, and... I'm just not interested." In the back of her mind, she knew that wasn't gonna fly. It was the truth, however flimsy it seemed.

"What, did you think it was some sort of joke, Zoey? Do you not understand what we gave up to send you there? I gave up a lot of my own hard-earned payment to provide for you, and instead you throw it back in my face with...this!" Digging into a bag sitting next to her chair, her mother raised a hefty book and slammed it down on the table. "This trash! Nonsense! All of it! A distraction from the academy!"

Now her father spoke. "Carolyn, we knew from the start that sending her to this new...Academy, was a long shot. Now that she's out, she can join the Watch, like her old man."

As her mother shook her head vigorously, her father continued. "You've never seen her in the armory or in the range field, but- Carolyn- she can shoot damn near as well as any other man with a bow, and she can hold her own in a fight! She'd be perfect."

Zoey sighed to herself. "Excuse me... I'm still here."

"Wade. Stop. Please. I'm not letting my only daughter go take a bow and get killed fighting all the wretched people this city has to offer! It's ridiculous! She could easily get back in if she just applied herself to the task!"

"Still here."

Whatever Wade might have said in reply was drowned out by a loud banging noise coming from the door. Instead, he grunted "Who the hell would that be?"

"Some crazy homeless man probably. Sit down, Wade, we're not done here."

A loud crash was audible, the sound of wood being smashed into the floor. Zoey's father leaped into action, sprinting for his room where he kept a crossbow and a few bolts. Not that he was supposed to be doing that, but then, he was always prepared. In the mean time, there were two men with ash-gray flesh and terrible red eyes all aglow with bloodlust barreling through the home. Everything became a blur for Zoey as she darted away, out of reach from the two men.

Her mother was not so fortunate, and let out a bloodcurdling scream as she was thrown to the ground, long clawlike fingers gouging her flesh and ripping her clothes, spraying blood everywhere. Carolyn became obscured by a thrashing mass of limbs, the two men pouncing on her as she tried in vain to defend herself. Then there was a loud click, followed by a solid thump as a crossbow bolt dug into flesh. One of the men was lifted off of Carolyn and thrown to the side, the bolt piercing his skull. There stood Wade, his eyes wide as the other invader turned to face him, leaping forward at him, teeth snapping. But he was ready for it. While the raging body flew through the air towards him, he drew a large hunting knife from a sheathe at his hip and rushed forward, colliding with his enemy, thrusting the knife into his belly while he threw the body over his head, using it's momentum to drive it into the wall with a loud crash.

"Zoey! Zoey, stay back! Help your mother!" roared her father as the man-turned-beast stood to face him, and they went down grappling. Swallowing her terror, Zoey obeyed, rushing to her mother's side. Most of her face was gone. Her dress had been torn apart and bloodied by ferocious claws, a visage that was the stuff of nightmares. Suppressing a gasp she tried to see if her mother was still breathing, relieved for a moment when it was proven that she yet had life in her lungs. "Mother?! MOTHER! Come on! You're gonna be- you're- you're gonna be okay, mom.."

There was no answer save for the strained, curious hiccuping noise she was making. Zoey watched, then tore up the dress to dry and stop the bleeding with the cloth. All at once she felt her mother buck under her weight and start to thrash, making a sound akin to a sob. Her fingers started to make horrible cracking noises, and with strength Zoey never knew that her mother possessed, threw her daughter across the room savagely. She felt a great deal of pain as she hit the wall with her back, her vision spotty and confusing. Slowly, her mother began to stand up, even despite the brutal wounds she had sustained. There was a terrible growling noise coming from her throat even as her broken, bloody fingers continued to grow into wicked claws.

"Mom...Please- Please.. Don't hurt me. Please- No-No!"

Another click, and her mother was driven to the floor by a crossbow bolt in the back. She seemed stunned, uncertain as to how she had been hurt, before she placed her hands on the floor and shoved violently, being flung to her feet. There stood Wade, gripping his knife. His eyes were almost as sharp as that knife, and he seemed to know in his heart that he was not dealing with his former wife. Ducking below a clumsy swipe of claws, he raked her belly with the blade, eliciting a pained wail. Then she caught him with her other hand, ripping into his side. It was a constant trade of devastating blows.

Lethal blows.

And in the end it was Wade who fell first. But as he was taken to ground, he threw his knife at his daughter. It came to a stop at her feet, and she seized it even as he heard him begin to yell in agony. _"__**ZOEY! HELP!"**_

She took a calming breath as she began to walk over. No sense getting there before she could do anything. For once she reveled in the calm, cold comfort of logic, and the iron in her will seemed to return to the forefront of her mind as she bounded towards her brawling father. With both hands on her knife, she drove the blade into the back of her mother's neck and twisted. When that failed to stop her, she lifted it and slammed it into the back of her mother's head. The wailing, the thrashing, it all stopped.

Her father had already stopped moving. Only breathing. His body was battered. They both knew there was nothing left for him. With his remaining eye, he looked at Zoey pleadingly. For a long minute she stood there, staring. "Dad...no...no..."

His head moved slowly. "...love you,Zoey."

"I...I love you too, dad."

Wade's eye closed, and his daughter was praying he would not feel the metal punching through his head.

Then she fell back against the wall and began to cry.


	4. Bill

_**Men made Survivors**_

"_For your years of service to the Lord Everly, Sir William Overbeck, you are hereby awarded all of the sum you were promised the day you began your service. Ravenholm is safe thanks to you. Now, you may rest easy. Go forth and enjoy your new life in the very city that you have defended."_

William Overbeck- known by now as 'Bill'- had fought for many years in the name of the city-state Ravenholm. When outlaws or bandits or even other armies threatened his home, he was on the front line, bellowing orders and taking lives as he had been trained to do. Over time he had acquired a great many wounds, many of which still plagued him as scars all across his body. Despite his age he was very fit, the very image of an old knight. But about a year ago, all that had gone to waste.

Because he had run out of fights. It had seemed so impossible until the day it had happened. For his exemplary service he had spoken with Lord Everly himself, and received from him all the benefits that came with his service. Hell, he'd gotten even more than he should have. Yet that didn't satisfy him.

All his life he had been a protector of men. From many to a few, it didn't matter. That was Bill. That was what he did all day, every day. And though he had grown colder, wiser, he had not forgotten his duty. Now they wouldn't let him perform it. He had no idea what to think about that. Should he be angry? Relieved that his duty was over? What?

No one seemed inclined to answer his question, and so he had wandered for a time. There was no need for him to employ himself, for he had all the money his old self would ever need. He had even tried to sign back up, but for his age he was turned away.

He still had no purpose. His family had all died while he was away. There was nothing for him here but the wandering, his thoughts drifting to how wretched his current state was. Everywhere he looked he saw people who had no idea what sort of torment that the dead men beyond their walls had endured to keep them safe, to keep them free. It was just...frustrating.

Now, with talk of the sickness spreading through the city's lower folk, Bill figured he would be among the first to take to the sick bed. But for now, he decided, he could yet do something useful. In the many hospices that were springing up around Ravenholm due to this new sickness, they had an abundance of people trying to force their way in, inhibiting the work of the people trying to save the ones that came first. So, he decided, he would help them.

For the first time in a long, blurred-together while, he donned his armor and took up his mace. No one questioned him- and for good reason. Knights in Ravenholm always had somewhere they needed to be at, so stopping them was never a good idea. That he was armed drew some curious glances, but he paid them no heed. If he could do something, he would.

It was a long, silent walk across the city for the old knight, something he had grown used to as the greatest fighter in all the company he kept. He had often returned to his commander alone and stained with blood that did not belong to him, but belonged instead to both friend and foe who had died in battle. Fortunately, the silence and loneliness were not for those reasons today. One of the few things he would not miss about having served in battle- for a purpose. That there was a need to fight at all was itself something he regretted, but that he was fighting for the right reasons gave him courage. It was not so great a courage now, he realized, but he was still doing a good deed.

Arriving at his chosen hospice, he found that it had been nearly fortified. There were people gathered outside, pushing at a few men in white clothes denoting their status as caretakers. Bill towered over most of them, clad in his well-worn armor and helmet. Without hesitating he pushed through the crowd, startling those who had not bothered to look behind them to see the armored behemoth rumbling through the crowd. He took his place among the men in white, and though they seemed confused at his appearance for a moment, they seemed too grateful for his sudden help to care.

"Stand back, people! You'll be admitted when they have room for you!" he shouted, much to their displeasure. Despite their unhappiness, he knew that they would never challenge a knight of Ravenholm. Not if he was in full armor. Slowly, they calmed. His head turned ever so slightly to the doctors. "You boys seem like you could use the help. Tell me an' I'll let em in one at a time."

"Right. Well, it's going to be a while... we have too many people as is. Who are you...?"

"Sir William Overbeck."

"Thank you, Sir Overbeck, for your help here. You have no idea how much it's going to help." Wit that, the caretakers returned inside, and that was how the hours went. One by one, they admitted people. More often than that, however, Bill could see from the corner of his visor that they were carrying stretchers out of the other entrance. Stretchers burdened by corpses.

_Damn. Whatever they're fighting is pretty quick t'kill._

It was a long time before he began to notice that the crowd had completely stilled. They only moved when one of the doctors began to take them inside. Then they began to wander away. Bill stayed motionless and silent. _Something's up._

Then there was a strange howling that made Bill's skin crawl. It wasn't particularly loud, but it carried. Something from the various alleys that ran near the hospice. All at once the crowd turned on him, and they began to snarl at him. Their eyes were quickly overtaken by a harsh red light. To try and dissuade them, Bill raised his mace and roared back. Then they were quiet, as though startled.

_What the hell?_

Without warning, they charged for the doors. Bill slammed them shut quickly, laying waste to the flailing bodies with his powerful mace. "Get _**BACK!" **_

In yet another strange turn, they obeyed, and fled into the city, leaving the old knight bewildered. By now the smell of blood was all around him- blood, and ...something else. Something vile and nasty. Cautiously, he turned, rapping his armored knuckles against the door. "Hey. You in there. We've got a problem."

No reply.

"HEY! You deaf? I said-"

Then it registered. A rhythmic pounding on the ground, coming from within the doors. Bill stepped away hurriedly, just as a fist smashed through the door. It was a massive thing, shaped like a man's flesh but swollen and painful. Apparently stronger to match it's size. Through the door forced itself a hulking mass of flesh with tiny legs and massive arms that vaguely resembled a man. It was walking on it's knuckles.

Bill took another step back and took a wild guess that he was going to have to kill it. With a hoarse laugh he chuckled. "Well, you're an ugly mother, aren'cha?"

As if in reply, the beast howled at him and began to bound forward with speed akin to a running man. Once within range it lunged forward with it's fists raised like some ape, ready to smash the knight. But the knight was a smart man, and he ducked below the attack, emerging behind the foe as it landed. Without hesitating, he wrapped both hands around his mace and let loose a powerful swing towards the beast's small left leg. Despite the massive size and nigh-certain toughness of the rest of the thing, the leg was no more safe than it had been before he became a monster.

Bill swung his body to the side as the monster whirled, trying to turn on it's shattered leg only to collapse on it, bellowing in fury as it's massive paws missed their target. For good measure, Bill smashed the beast's hand with his mace, causing it to draw back instantly.

"Come'n get me, ugly." taunted the Knight. Though he didn't think the beast could understand him, he seemed to excel at pissing it off. On it's remaining limbs it pounded forward. This time it wasn't trying to punch him... no, it seemed to want to fall on him. So Bill changed tactics. He waited. And when the beast reached him he swiped upward with his mace, striking it's puny head from below, ramming the dangling tongue into the skull. All at once he had halted the monster's charge. It's head was snapped upward, followed by the body. There was a slow moment before it started to come back down, bleeding badly. Bill darted between the hulking arm and the torso, coming out behind it again to smash down on it's back and ribs. Without slowing down he hit the same spot, throwing himself back as an arm swept past him.

Their battle lasted for what seemed like ages, with the old knight dominating the raging monster. Neither showed any signs of flagging, save for the increasing volume of the beast's rapid breaths. Bill had landed perhaps seventeen hits so far, and the goddamn thing was still moving. This needed to end **now. **

Like it had before, the beast came for him, swinging wide. And like he had before, he smashed it's hand into the ground with his mace, then whirled and bashed it in the face. _Nineteen._

Unexpectedly, he was caught in a limp shoulder shove, staggering him backwards. Then he felt the power of the monster's fist.

William Overbeck had never once been thrown like a rag doll, which was why he was so alarmed when he was knocked off his feet and sent tumbling. For a fully-armored Knight to suffer such a fall was a terrible risk.

Then it was coming for him. Limping along, it was coming to finish him off.

_Get up, you lazy bastard. On your feet. He's gonna kill you if you don't fuckin move RIGHT NOW._

Slowly, he rose to his feet. There was no time for him to draw into an elaborate stance, so he gripped the mace with both hands and swung it underhanded arc with all the strength remaining to him. It connected painfully with the hulk's face, swinging the entire head upwards. Just like it had before, the body followed as the head arced back, it's arms flowing upwards. The remaining leg buckled under the weight and it landed hard on it's back, rumbling. Bill took the opportunity to attack, and dealt a decisive blow to it's face. With such an easy target, the mace practically sank through the fiend's head.

Standing over his defeated foe, Bill took a moment to examine the thing he had just beat to death. It was still vaguely human in it's own way, but he knew that this creature was long gone. What little clothing remained was reminiscent of one of the caretakers he had met with earlier. That meant for damn sure it had killed everyone in there. Bill grimaced and looked around.

Ravenholm was unusually quiet. Like the silence just before a big battle.

It seemed that Overbeck had his wish. There were monsters afoot, and their very existence was an act of aggression against him, against the people of Ravenholm.

So long as there is a war for him to wage, Sir William Overbeck will continue to fight until he has won, or he has died. It did not change when he was discharged, and it will not change now. With that thought in mind, the knight began his death-march into the city, and woe unto those monsters who would stand in his way.


	5. The Second Day: Nightfall

For the two of you who have put down a review, I'd like to thank you for giving your commentary. I appreciate that you've taken the time to read this trial by fire in the fanfiction area. I encourage anyone else to place their own review as they see fit- I very much like to see what people think of this first story.

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_**Be ye man or monster?**_

Within the span of two days, Ravenholm was engulfed in madness. It was not even really the monsters, the plagued souls that wore the tattered flesh of human beings, that had caused all that damage. It was the people. No one could really believe it, at first. No one thought that they'd be killed by another living being. That was before bodies started getting dropped off of rooftops with ropes tied around their necks. Bodies with no trace of the madness upon their flesh.

And even then, they still held out faith. Many would rather believe the monsters had some vicious master who was doing this, than believe that their own fellows were murdering each other. But when the Watch's numbers began to dwindle, there was no one to stop the refuse of society, the criminals, from taking over. There was but one brutal truth to learn: When the system collapses, those who knew their way past it will find their way without it. The rest learn fast or die even faster.

There were still a few unified groups out there in the streets, fighting for their lives, and doing quite well. Before, they had been seen as scum. Now, people wanted to see them as saviors, because they could save them.

But they didn't. They had been taught by the world that no matter how hard you try, you cannot erase the brand of society. Because no one had bothered to look past the dirt and grime to tell them otherwise, they became dominant, and they visited the scorn once reserved for them upon those who had given it in the first place. All of that translated into the mass slaughter of those who could not or would not adapt.

By nightfall on the second day, the dominant players had been established. Several large gangs of survivors had been bound together in blood, and they all had it in mind that they would be the ones to make it out alive. From a distance, no one would know who they were, nor their names, only that they were not the friend you might be looking for. Almost all of them had taken in the mindset that they would take care of their own- and only, their own. In a ruin where no one is sure whether they're going to be helped or get gutted, distrust grows rampant, and it would only get worse, because the gates had long since shut.

Ravenholm had been closed in. Not to protect them from the outside, as it had been in times before, but in a desperate attempt to protect the outside from the few who remained. This marvel of the world had been built to keep the enemy out, but it's architects, it seemed, had provided just as amply for keeping the enemy in, for the walls were too high and the ground too hard to properly dig out of. Of course, there were undoubtedly other ways out of the city. They just needed to find them. Problem being that even if they found them, they might not be able to use them. The gates, for example, couldn't be forced, and only Watchmen could open them. Watchmen who had long since been called back to defend the inner city. There would eventually be other, more accessible ways of leaving, but that would take a long time. For now, no one was getting out. They were on their own.

All of that meant that what Ravenholm had at this moment was all that there was to _be _had. Which meant that soon enough, there wouldn't be a supply large enough to be shared. That, in turn, meant that no one was going to give their things up willingly. Everyone knew it, even if they didn't want to believe it. As soon as Ravenholm's plentiful bounty became more sparse, it would become nigh impossible to tell the men apart from the monsters.

There were those who still held out hope for good folk, however, and who set out to find them. One such person was a member of the Raven Watch, a younger woman by the name of Nadine Haber who was appointed the leader of a small band of Watchmen to look through the city. By now, the inner city gates had been sealed, closing them off from the main residential districts. While it wasn't optimal, it helped keep the strain on the Watch low.

But now, two days in, they had decided that now was the time to see if there was anyone left. With little idea what to expect, Nadine had set out into the city through the use of a very long, plank-like piece of wood that they'd managed to elongate to where it would reach across the gap towards the rooftops. The moment they disembarked, it had been pulled away.

"So...Haber. What...ah, what exactly are you hoping to find?" asked one of the watchmen- Arlan, she recalled. A sturdy fellow with, perhaps, too much of a gambling streak to his name. Not particularly good a fighter, but he had sharp eyes.

She replied, her voice changed ever so slightly by the presence of a helmet. "We're looking for survivors. There has to be someone who escaped the Plagued, because the fires keep getting lit," here she paused, to take a closer look around. The rooftops were barren and unnervingly open. "and I know that the Plagued wouldn't be trying to get our attention."

"What if they're already dead? We're wandering through this terrible, plague-riddled place with no idea how it spreads and only one way out if we get in trouble. No disrespect, but this seems like the dumbest damn thing you've ever had us do." Arlan gripped his spear tighter. "I don't want to die like the rest of them did." No one needed reminding of whom he spoke- they had seen firsthand how their fellow Watchmen had been slowly overwhelmed, holding the outpost just beyond the inner wall. Pounded to death inside their armor.

"We're not going to die, Arlan. Have faith." She nodded, to reaffirm her statement, as she approached the rooftop entrance- a box-like extension, in which were wooden steps that would carry them down into the building.

"That might be enough for you, but the rest of us are a tad more concerned for our own lives and particularly for our limbs."

"I don't doubt it. But we've got work to do. The Watch wouldn't have let you carry sharp things if they thought you weren't capable of using them." With that, Nadine descended into the building, her reluctant comrades not far behind. Beneath their boots, the wood creaked ominously. It took all of their willpower not to just jump down to stop the creaking. As they passed through the perilously dark halls, they heard nothing save for their own breathing. All of them longed desperately to break the crushing silence, but no one was brave enough to risk it. No one, save for Arlan.

His helmet turned from side to side as he spoke. "...Place is too damn creepy."

"Agreed." replied the man next to him. "I'd rather...some noise, than this."

"_Quiet!"_ hissed another man. Everyone fell silent, and stopped.

Then they all heard it. A gurgling noise. Footsteps.

Moments later, the rear guard let out a surprised shout and whirled on someone in the dark, swinging his warhammer with all his strength. His strike connected with flesh, and there was a harrowing moment before something in that same place exploded out, throwing the rear guard off his feet and covering him

He cried out in shock, dropping his weapons. Before long he was pulled back from the dark hallway by his comrades, but by then they could hear the distinct pounding of many feet on wood, and they knew that somehow they had disturbed the monsters below. With all the speed they could muster, they fled back to the roof and barred the door with the fallen man's mace, seeing as how he was too weak to use it himself. Almost immediately they began to hear the sound of fists pounding on that same door.

Then the man who had struck down the beast in the dark began to cough and wheeze, still covered in the fluid. Arlan crouched down beside him, shaking his shoulder. "Ease up there, man. Stay calm. You're gonna be okay."

His only response was a torrent of green vomit onto the ground.

"Arlan- on your feet. Grab him. We need to go."

"But he can't jump the gap!"

"Doesn't matter. If we stay on this roof they're gonna-" His friend never finished his sentence. Something jumped out at him from the black night and with a terrifying scream, threw him to the ground, pouncing upon him and smashing at his face with cold, dead fists.

What happened from then on was an adrenaline-fueled blur. As one of the Watchmen raced towards his fallen comrade, the man who had been covered in goo suddenly charged out of Arlan's grasp and, using his body as a projectile, barreled into his former friend, carrying them both straight off the rooftop. Stunned silence followed. In the span of a minute they had been attacked and within three, one of their own men had turned. It was happening too fast. Too damn fast.

Then the door had been broken down, falling open with the mace still embedded in the handle- it was instead the hinges that gave way. Nadine drew her sword and faced the door. "Defend yourselves!" she cried, while retrieving her shield from it's harness on her back and running towards the poor man being beat on by his blue attacker. With a powerful swing, she bashed the shield into the offending creature's side, knocking him off of her comrade. Then she drove forward with her sword, piercing the monster's chest. Whatever the power that made these men into monsters, it did not make them indestructible, and the fiend sank back, sliding off the roof.

But when she turned to face the downed man, she found that his mauled corpse held no more life than the thing she had just fought. His throat was cut in long, ripping motions, no doubt the beast's claws. He could not be saved. So she turned her attention to her allies, trying to pin the Plagued down in the doorway with spears. Thus far, they were succeeding. Nadine got behind them, giving encouragement that she herself barely heard.

As she stepped away from them, something heavy smashed into the side of her head and sent her helmet flying, ripping the straps open in the process. Her vision flickered as she was sent sprawling, trying to avoid falling onto her side as the world went upside down. She tumbled to a halt near the edge of the roof and tried to stand, reaching out to seize up her sword which lay just a few feet away. Wrapping her fingers around the grip gave her some small measure of comfort. Despite that, her vision was still blurry and her ears were now ringing. Looking down over the edge, she saw that the Plagued were gathering in the alley below, and at their feet lay the two Watchmen who had gone over the side, broken and bloody.

Rather than join them, Nadine stood shakily and looked towards where she figured the Watchmen ought to be- and there they were. Standing defiantly, surrounded by Plagued. Even if she couldn't see all that well, she wasn't nearly bad enough not to see what was happening; they were being flanked. A terrible roar sounded from the depths of the building, followed moments later by a blurry green shape charging out of the stairwell, scattering her Watchmen. It's right arm was astonishingly massive, a sharp contrast to the floppy, boneless left arm. What remained of it's clothing implicated it to be a carpenter of some sort, tools still attached at the belt. Then the fiend seized a man and began to pound him into the roof.

Meanwhile, Nadine saw a wretched, long-necked...thing, sneaking up behind her men as they tried to stand. It reared back, spewing a glob of greenish liquid at the farthest man. But unlike what had been spewed over her Watchman before, this was a vile, sizzling thing, and the unfortunate target started to scream as he seemed to melt before her very eyes, mercifully dead before he got to his knees.

Then another shape appeared at the edge of her vision, crawling onto the roof- a hunched over figure, seeming so insignificant until it leaped on the back of one of her men and began to pull him back, until he slipped and plummeted into the alley like so many before him. Within seconds she had lost another three men.

Arlan shot her a look-she could tell it was him, because he had the spear. It was a long, pleading look. Then he shook his head as Nadine continued to stagger to her feet, running over to her. Without giving her a chance to ask what he was doing, he grabbed her around the waist and jumped right off the roof, pushing off with his spear. For a long moment, Nadine thought he had just tried to kill her, until they both landed on top of the roof. Arlan recovered a great deal faster than his leader, so he seized her again and hauled her to the door of the smaller building. Without hesitation he opened it, shoved her in, and slammed it without even so much as a word.

Then it was quiet. Feet pounded across the roof in great numbers- but they were gone as soon as she heard them. Nadine didn't move, hardly dared to breath for who knows how long.

_Stop wallowing. Get on your feet. Find some way home._

The rooftops weren't an option right now, what with the vast amount of Plagued running across them. Even if they weren't there now, they would be as soon as she showed her face. So that left her with the unfortunate path; heading down, into a dark, unnervingly silent building that could very easily be full of Plagued. Her ears were still ringing, her vision still failed her, and it was almost certain that she had been injured more than just getting her bell rung. Slowly, she made to stand. Gripping her sword tightly for reassurance, she began to descend.

As she had briefly witnessed before, it was eerily silent. Empty. There were a few bloodstains here and there. This time she was alert and herself silent. Listening for any monster that might sneak up on her. It still wasn't clear whether the silence was a blessing, or a curse, but before she could stray too far down that line of thought, the silence was broken by a muted thump. Nadine slowly drew her sword, wincing at the volume in the deathly silence. Without her shield, she'd have to make every swing count. As she heard the sound again she turned the corner, raising her sword to thrust into the heart of whomever was around the corner.

Instead of a Plagued, she was greeted by the face of a young woman wearing a red surcoat. Her green eyes were wide with fear and in her shaking hands was a crossbow. After a moment, Nadine lowered her sword. "...You okay?" she asked quietly. There was a long pause before the girl seemed to realize she hadn't been run through, before she nodded fervently. Nadine nodded. "I'm...sorry for trying to skewer you."

"It-it's alright. I, ah, I would have done that too." the girl replied. Now that Nadine had a chance to observe her, she found that the girl did indeed have a knife in her other hand. _Smart girl._ Her hair was a certain dark brown color rather than Nadine's own light brown, as well as the variation in that hers was tied back in a simple tail where Nadine's was placed in a tight bun on the back of her head. Nadine's oval-shaped face with high eyebrows framed steely blue eyes, coupled with high cheekbones, a pert nose with a somewhat narrow mouth with thinner lips framed by a smooth jaw and a pointed chin made for an overall strong face- trustworthy, even. Fitting, given her status among the Watch.

The watchman was patient. It was clear that the girl didn't quite trust her yet, and she was sizing her up. Looking her over. To be honest, she didn't mind. It had happened many times beforehand. After she seemed to refocus- not bothering to note her armor nor her sword, Nadine realized- the watchman decided to offer her hand. "I'm Nadine Haber, of the Raven Watch. Mind if I ask who you are...?" She made sure that her voice was quiet, for fear of startling the girl.

Slowly, the girl took her hand and shook it. Her much smaller hand was nearly lost in the gloved one of the Watchman before her. The girl was perhaps 5'6, where Nadine herself was closer to 6'1. Their differences physically went even further. While Nadine was clad in armor including a cuirass both front and back, pauldrons, long engraved bracers, and greaves that encapsulated her calfs, she was visibly well-muscled in comparison to the smaller more petite girl.

"I'm Zoey."

"Zoey..." Nadine rolled the name over her tongue as though to get a feel for it. "It's... ah... Nice to meet you, Zoey. Even if it is like this." Zoey only nodded, unsure what to say. The two stood there for a moment, both uncertain, before Zoey broke the silence.

"How did you end up in here? Last I checked, it was only these... things in here, since this morning." She looked around nervously.

Nadine sighed. "I was on the rooftops with my fellow Watchmen. We were trying to look for survivors, and we were...ambushed. I got hit and they stashed me up through the roof door." A pause. "I'm... not really sure where I am now."

She got a shrug. "Just another...residential." Her voice was short and clipped as though she was uncomfortable with talking.

The Watchman nodded. "Mm. Well... I suppose it could be worse. I don't suppose you've got a group of people hanging around somewhere...?" she asked, rolling her shoulder.

Zoey seemed to deflate, as though she had been saddened by the question."Uh...no. It's just me."

"I see. In that case... might I suggest we stick together? Between your crossbow and my sword, I think we can help eachother." _Or at least, you can distract me from thinking of them._

There was a moment of silence between them where the girl seemed to ponder, uncertain about the idea. In an effort to lay her mind at ease, Nadine quickly added, "If you'd rather stay on your own, then we will simply go our seperate ways. I'm not one to kill because you disagree with me."

Slowly, Zoey started to nod. "Uh..yea. I guess we can group up. I mean... it's not like anything will get worse if we do."

She was rewarded by the Watchman with a reassuring smile. "Alright. You've been here for a little while, right?" Zoey replied in the affirmative. "Do you have a place we can hole up? I don't fancy the idea of trying to take cover in some random room."

"Yea. I live here. My house is just a floor down." She looked around nervously. "If we're gonna go there, then let's make it quick. Waiting for them to come back isn't exactly a great plan.."

A cold wind started to blow through the buildings, no doubt through some broken or open windows, causing Nadine to narrow her eyes and hunch over just a bit. "I agree. Let's get moving. Lead on, Zoey." She pointed ahead with her sword, the dried blood preventing it from shining as it usually had in the moonlight.

Then they were off. Zoey moved quickly and erraticly, fidgeting all the time. She hadn't been wounded, nor did she appear sick, which ruled out both of Nadine's explanations. For now, however, she didn't care overly much. If something went wrong, then she might be concerned. Until then it was just a weird thing she was doing.

As they proceeded through the silent halls and, later, down creaky wooden steps, they found themselves more nervous than they had been before. Often times they would hear footsteps or soft, almost inaudible moans that set them on edge. It didn't help that they never saw anything, as fortunate as one might think that to be. Not being able to see the threat and confront it was a terrible thing. And all the while the cold draft picked up strength, blowing cloth about here and there as though it had been placed there with the sole purpose of unnerving the two women.

Against all the fear that was building up, they made progress. Zoey reported that they had nearly reached their destination when, all at once, they began to hear the sound of shuffling feet beyond counting. Together they dove into the nearest room, praising the good fortune that it was empty of the Plagued. Then they listened to the sound as the damned kept marching on. After a time, the sound slowly faded off.

"That was too close." murmured Zoey not long after. "I...don't know if we should go out there again."

Nadine began to frown. "Perhaps not. How far are we from your home, did you say?"

They began to stand up from where they had been crouching. "Not far. It's just down the hall." Zoey replied, her voice betraying her nervousness.

The warrior walked across the room, peering out one of the windows. It had been shattered, and she suspected that the one who had broken it lay somewhere in the alley. The starless night seemed ever more foreboding now, and she could see shapes moving vaguely along the rooftops. "On second thought, Zoey... perhaps we ought to move after all. If the Plagued have dispersed by now, we should be able to make it for such a short distance."

She received a confused look for that. "What? Why?"

"Because they can see us through this window. Look-" A gloved finger pointed out the distant figure crawling along the rooftop. "-there. If we stay here we'll be overwhelmed, if not by them then by the Plagued that are drawn to the noise from inside the building."

Now Zoey shared in her frown, quickly warping into a portrayal of fear. "So... we- we risk the halls or we get trapped in here?"

A long sigh left Nadine. "Unfortunately, you've hit the nail on the head. That's exactly the situation." Then she paused. "...take heart. If we stand together, then we'll make it."

Unfortunately, the girl did not seem too convinced. Before she could voice that, Nadine came closer, stooping to meet Zoey's gaze at eye level. "I know we've only just met, Zoey, but you need to trust me and I need to trust you. Think we can do that?" Her words were spoken slowly, almost as if to a child.

There was a long moment before Zoey replied. "Y-yeah. Yeah, we can do that, Nadine." As her reply met the warrior's approval, she rose back to her full height and drew her sword again, going to the door.

"Ready?"

"Let's go."

Nadine seized the door and opened it. "Right behind me, Zoey. This'll have to be quick." Slowly, she stepped out into the hall.

For a few blessed moments they saw no Plagued. No corpses. Nothing at all, save for a bloodstain on the wall. They were almost there, when they heard a dreadful howl from outisde the building, and a slamming of flesh on the floor alerted them to the presence of a foe. Zoey had only just turned when she felt something slam into ther side and throw her to the ground. She screamed in pain as she felt it dig into her side with razor sharp claws, and it leaned down, bloodied jaws wide until she jammed her knife into it's side.

Her attacker drew back, howling in the same fashion as they'd heard moments ago, but before it could reach down to gut her it was stuck in the face by a savage kick. Nadine drew back and slammed into Zoey's opponent with her shoulder, heaving it perhaps an inch or two off the floor. It landed gracefully on mutilated, bare feet and made as though to crouch again. Before it could do so, a loud twang filled the room as a crossbow bolt flew from Zoey's position on the floor, piercing the creature's arm. Driving forward with all her strength, Nadine dealt the stunned beast a devastating blow with the sword in her hand, carving a long, bloody trench diagonally from shoulder to hip, before whirling around to gain momentum and cleaving into it's neck savagely.

As their singular foe slumped to the floor, they began to hear the pounding of many feet racing up the stairs below them. "Zoey! How bad is it?!" Nadine called to her, grabbing her forearm and pulling her up.

"A-ah! I'll be okay. Thanks."

"My pleasure. We need to- oh, hell!" Her face took on a defiant snarl. "We're trapped, Zoey. They're cutting us off!"

Zoey's blood ran cold, even as she held her side to prevent it from spilling out. "Oh no...nno, no, no... What do we do?"

The Plagued began to close the distance rapidly, bounding towards their prey even as they trampled one another. "You still trust me, Zoey?" Nadine lifted her sword, poising to strike as soon as they were upon her.

Her crossbow began to shake in her hands as she replied. "Y-yeah." Then she stood off to the side, trying to aim past Nadine.

"Then I still trust you." Ever closer, the Plague's awful stench washed over them. "So remember this: We're not gonna die tonight."

And with that the battle in the hallway began, pitting two women against a horde of monsters.


	6. The Second Day: Midnight

_**He who Resists, Remains**_

Two days. Two long days since Neema died. Two days since he started hunting, and he was nowhere near done. By now Francis, with nothing left to lose, must have killed a hundred of the monsters that had come for him as they had come for his sister. His favorite vest had been drenched in gore ten times over. Since she had died, his only company had been the biting, almost spiteful wind, and any unfortunate monster he could find.

His boots made a distinct, heavy sound with every step. There was no effort made to conceal his presence. Why bother when he intended to kill every wretched beast he could find? Let them come to him. As he walked, he adjusted his grip on one of the two hand-axes he had ended up seizing from a woodworking shop. They'd served him well and, if he had any luck, they still would.

If he were to be completely honest with himself- something that would only rarely ever happen- he knew all too well that he had lost control. When he fought, he experienced a surge of... Life, for lack of a better word. It invigorated him and encouraged him, and with Neema gone, he would take all that he could get. This surge of... feeling, was absolutely glorious and intoxicating. He loved it. And it made him forget the agony.

For once, he was actually listening to the world around him. More to find something to fight as fast as he could than for any actual concern. Yet now, he heard something that genuinely interested him. Voices.

Someone- a very alive, someone- was talking, and they were awfully close by. Eager to investigate, Francis turned right from the alley he was in,entering through a wooden door that had been battered down by numerous frenzied bodies. Some idiot had probably screamed, and drawn them up to the top. Slowly, he shook his head.

The stairs were littered with corpses, full of arrows, bolts, and even throwing knives, all expelled in a vain effort to stop the onslaught. None of them were still moving, so Francis didn't stop to put a hole in any of them. As he moved, the voices grew louder. He quieted his steps to make sure they didn't hear him coming.

When he drew closer, they came into his proper hearing range. A man with a deep, rumbling voice was sighing. "I don't know. We've got a lot left, but if we keep carrying it we might not be able to outrun those things."

"Oh, if you think I'm leaving behind a whole lot of food- after our friends died to get it for us?! No way in hell." hissed a higher-pitched voice, likely a woman's.

The mention of food brought a rumble to Francis' stomach, reminding him how he hadn't eaten anything in two days. Maybe he could get them to give him some. It was an appealing thought.

Their conversation continued, but Francis wasn't listening so much as he was searching. Hunger became all too apparent. He was starving, and these people had food. As he drew ever closer, he started to plan for the first time in a long while. Given that they did have 'a lot' of food, they'd probably have enough to part with willingly. In theory.

His major concern, however, was the alternative; if they didn't part willingly. While Francis had long since stopped putting any stupendous value on his life, starvation was not the way he would die. That was his resolution. He'd go down fighting. So he needed that food.

In the solitude of his own mind, he asked himself what he was prepared to do for it.

The answer didn't come easily. When it did, Francis knew all too well that it was the brutal, uncomfortable truth, and for a few moments he was glad that Neema wasn't around to see the monster her big brother was willing to be. As he thought, he came to the door. Before he could open it, he heard the woman shriek from the other side as a feral roar was released from a third party. There was the sound of feet thundering across the floor, bodies slamming into eachother and a savage yell from the man.

Battles with these fiends either dragged on for long, heartpounding minutes or lasted for a brief few seconds. This proved to be one of the former, and Francis laid his hand on the door as though to open it. But he hesitated, considering, calculating.

If the monster kills the man, or at least, wounds him, then Francis would not have to worry about him any more. On the other hand, it was... wrong. So very wrong to let him die.

Then again, Francis had never once been declared a saint. There would be time for regret and self-loathing later. This was a new world, and the rules had changed. Morals didn't keep you alive. Food did, and people didn't like sharing.

And yet he still could not justify his decision to himself. He did not manage to convince himself to act, however, and after a drawn out brawl, the room was silent save for the gasping of the man. A snarl came through the door. "That all you got, you...you monster?" panted the aforementioned man.

As if a reply, that same herald of death set about to howling. From what Francis had seen, the beasts in the street were attracted to noise. That thing was calling all it's friends. Just then, he heard a thud and a grunt. No more dallying.

Francis entered the room, towering over the smaller man who leaned against the wall, not far away, clutching a broken iron sword. His eyes took in all the details of the room, and he cared little for most of them. It seemed that the man's opponent had been driven off, for they were no longer present. In the case of the woman... her body had been ripped apart in an eerily similar fashion to the little girl he had buried two days ago. Indeed, her very face seemed to have some odd resemblance to his little sister.

His observations were interrupted by the smaller man pointing the sword at him. Blood traveled freely down his face and his tunic by means of a multitude of cuts. "Stay...BACK! Whoever you are!"

A shrug was all he was given by the larger man. With long strides, he crossed the room, passing the wounded man and looking for their aforementioned food, though the survivor made an attempt to follow after him before falling to one knee. His prize was found not long after- a messenger's satchel full of hardtack and salted jerky, from the look of it. Rather bland fare, but it was edible. There were two bags, small enough that he could sling one over either shoulder and be fine.

Just then he heard the man speak. "You...you can't! That's mine! That's all my food!" He staggered towards Francis, his eyes wide with fear and his broken sword raised awkwardly over his head in an effort to look intimidating.

"Look, pal, if you start hobbling you might be able to hide in one of these little rooms before they get here." Francis drawled, unconvinced by the man's display. "You might make it."

His staggering motion became a sort of limp run, throwing himself forward. "_NO!_ You can't! That's- that's a death sentence!"

"We all get one some day. Not my problem. But you're gonna hurt yourself if you keep waving that thing around." The big man stepped to the side, as though to go around him.

"_DROP IT, OR I'LL CUT YOUR FUCKING THROAT!" _howled the man. Had he not been beaten to a pulp, wielding a broken sword, he might have managed to be taken as a threat. Even then, however, what was left of his sword was very visibly dull. Francis eyed him.

"Step back, or I'm gonna break your legs." he warned, before the man was upon him, sweeping the broken sword up, then down, tryingto strike him vertically along the left shoulder. Wide, bright green eyes got even wider as the sword bounced off the toughened leather. Then he screamed, as Francis kicked out savagely and snapped his knee back, first one then the other. A brutal strike to his sternum with the armored knuckles threw him to the ground and left him wheezing, unable to even scream.

"You think I was kidding?" snapped Francis. "I don't bullshit around when it comes to this." With those same long strides he made to leave, only to have his ankle grabbed. Slowly, he looked down.

Grabbing his ankle was the broken man, wheezing up, his eyes full of fear and pleading. "Please... don't leave me here. Don't..."

Pale fingers were shaken free of Francis' boot, and without another word he was off, heading for the roof. The wounded man he left behind pushed himself up slowly, but found his devastated knees unable to support him. A pained cry escaped him as tears rushed down his face, even as a horde of angry, bloodthirsty monsters rushed up the stairs, into his room, and then were upon him. Terrified screams were all that remained.

Francis shook his head. It didn't feel good, what he had done, but it had been necessary for his survival. Reminding himself of that didn't seem to help, as he ascended the stairs without bothering to block them. Why do that when you're not sticking around?

While he walked he was thinking. Always, the thinking. It always made his skin crawl with the absolute silence. He was used to noise. Raucous noise or quiet conversation, it didn't matter. But there had always been SOMETHING around. A pang of longing took root in him, yearning for that vibrant sound yet again, satisfied when he reached the roof and could hear the wind flowing by.

After making sure to close the door behind him, he stood motionless on the roof, looking into the sky. Though he hated standing around, idling while there was something he could be doing (admittably, he didn't know what), every once in a while it was good to take in the city. Even if it was a horrible place to be. His eyes wandered across the cityscape, across it's vast silhouette. Tonight it was clouded with a thick, soupy fog through which he could barely see the moon. It added a certain.. ominous element to the appearance of the titanic city.

Francis had stood there for perhaps three minutes before he saw something move. It wasn't far away, about the size of a man, leaping cross the gap between rooftops and running straight for Francis. At first he had thought it to be one of the beasts, and he had turned to go. But then he noticed it was carrying something- a crude pitchfork. The beasts didn't carry weapons...

He did a double-take. No- it was definitely a living being. Looking closer, he saw that it had covered itself with a cloth tarp or something. Like a hood, one that was fluttering in the wind. It fell back, revealing the face of a dark-skinned man rife with panic. Pounding feet were joined by a shout.

"Hey! Heeey! Over here! I'm not- I'm not one of them! Heeelp!" he bellowed, trying to run and shout at the same time. Francis grimaced. High hopes had been placed on him being out of sight before the other man saw him and made him feel guilty for leaving him.

_I hate feeling guilty for stupid shit like this._

Francis squared his shoulders and sighed. _This is a bad idea. This is a really, really bad idea._ Then he straightened and shouted back. "Get your ass over here! I ain't got all night to wait here!" Gloved fingers wrapped tightly around the handle of his handaxe, and he grimaced as he emptied his other hand. This idiot must not have seen the gap between rooftops, because he sure as hell couldn't properly jump this one. And of course, Francis would feel like a bastard if he let the little shit drop.

Time seemed to drag on as the man came ever closer, with Francis cursing himself for not taking the chance he still had to just go. He was confident that saving this man was a waste of time, and yet he did not move, did not leave him to his fate. Then, at long last, he was locked into his decision, for the man was too close now for him to bother leaving.

Nearly to the edge of the building, the man drove the wooden end of his pitchfork onto the ledge and then used it to help him get a little more distance on his jump, to Francis' surprise. That he hadn't slipped and fallen to his death was amazing in itself.

The moment was upon him._ Last chance to turn back, Francis, 'fore you take on a burden you don't need._

As the dark-skinned man reached out towards the ledge, his pitchfork sailed over his head and onto the roof, skidding to a halt. A loud thump was heard as his torso met the edge of the roof with too much force, then the scrabbling of his fingers frantically trying to catch a grip, any grip, on the roof. He wheezed, trying to regain his breath before coughing out, "Help me, man, I'm gonna slide off!"

The bigger man almost walked away before he reached down and seized the jumper's hand in a tight grip, hauling him bodily up from the edge and into a standing position. Now that they were on equal ground, Francis was surprised to find that the other man was almost as tall as he was, with a far more slender build than his own. "Y'know, stunts like that tend to make you a bloody red puddle in some alley. Lucky sonofabitch." he stated gruffly, clapping him on the shoulder.

His newfound companion grinned through his exhaustion. "Well, hey, man, it beats getting' chomped! Quicker, for damn sure." The white tunic he wore had been stained a reddish brown, no doubt by the blood of the creatures that roamed the city. Likewise the light-brown trousers that he wore had been tainted by that same blood, and his already thin 'city-boots' had been worn through in several places.

A long gash along his leg was revealed as he turned to look down into the alley, which by now held the splattered corpses of his pursuers. "Damn... That was a nice save. I definitely owe you one." That same cheery grin- rather uncharacteristic of people who had very nearly died moments ago- stayed plastered upon his face, though Francis got the distinct impression that he was forcing it. "I'm Louis. You?" he asked, offering his hand, which Francis gave a firm shake.

"Francis. Your...stabbin' thing is over there. I don't know about you but I don't really want to stick around to find out how long it takes the leapers to figure out we're up here." He rolled his shoulders and turned away. "Think the mob's died down inside, so it oughta be safe to go back in."

Louis frowned. "There was a mob inside earlier? Damn. Hope there wasn't anyone down there... that's why you're up here?"

"Yeah. Got in a fight with some guys in there- one of the loud bastards must have seen us and started screaming." For that he got a concerned look from the man, before it was replaced with a calm, determined expression.

"Damn." Louis looked around. "Shame we have to deal with both those...people, and the corpses running around." He trotted over and picked up the pitchfork, before looking back at Francis. "Hey... uh.. you- mind if I tag along? I think we'll have better chances together."

_Don't do it. Don't you dare. He'll drag you down with him._

"...I guess you can, sure. If you start slowin' me down, though, I'm leavin' you. And to be honest, ya don't seem like you're too well versed with this, so you're gonna do _what _I say, an' _when_ I say if. We clear?" Francis leaned in close, meeting Louis' gaze with a stern, almost intimidating one of his own.

The shadow of uncertainty fell again over Louis, and for a moment he considered backing out. But before long, he sighed, and nodded his head. "Sure. I get ya. Where are we headed?"

"Ground level. There's a bunch of alleyway hideouts, an' if we can find em, we might be able to find some good stuff, if the gutter rats haven't already cleared out. By chance that they did, we'll still have a pretty good door between us and them." He adjusted his thick leather vest, already adorned with scratch marks and dried fluid. "Catch your breath, then we're headed down."

Louis nodded, crouching down to take a brief respite. "So... who were you before this all went down?" he asked idly. No one could have missed the way that Francis stiffened at that question, or the delay between the question and the answer.

"I was a horseman. Simple as that." He shrugged dismissively.

The dark-skinned man raised a brow. "A horseman? Nice. Never learned to ride, myself..."

"Yep. Pretty good with it, too." There was a hint of pride in the brawny man's voice, before he directed a pointed look at Louis. "Think you're ready to get goin'?"

"Yeah. Lead on!" He nodded enthusiastically at his new ally. "I gotta say... I've got a good feeling about our chances now, Francis."

Francis gave an apathetic shrug. "If you say so, Louis." Without further delay he proceeded to the rooftop door and opened it, stepping down the first step, before pausing. "Hey- Louis." He extended an arm, holding out one of his handaxes. "Your pitchfork's gonna be worse than useless, and I hate draggin' useless people around. Use this, give it a good swing."

"An axe?... alright. I guess... whatever works." shrugged Louis, taking the axe from him. "Got a strap or something I can hang this on?" He tapped the pitchfork on the ground.

The other man shook his head. "Nah. Might just be best to set it aside, if I'm honest with ya. It's good for pinnin', but not so great for stabbin'. Up to you though, if you think you can carry it while you swing that axe."

"Got it. Well... I think I'll try it. Two's better than one in any case, right?"

"Whatever you say." Francis grunted.

Louis let out a sigh, giving no response as he slid the axe into his belt before following Francis down into the building. "If this is how it'll run, this is gonna be a long damn night." he grumbled under his breath.

Slowly, the larger man looked over his shoulder, and with an aggravated exhalation, spat out "If you start talkin shit behind my back, we're gonna have a problem, Louis. You hear?"

"Hey man, I wasn'-"

"Don't give a shit. Don't open your mouth unless you got somethin useful to say." A thick finger was jabbed into Louis' face, following him as he recoiled.

"...got it." The reply satisfied Francis, and when he turned, Louis rolled his eyes before going to follow him, only for Francis to stop again.

"See those bags on the ground there? Grab em. That's our food. Last us a while."

Louis grinned. "Nice. I'll have to take a look when we find a spot."

"Maybe you will. C'mon. Let's go." With that closing statement, the two men descended into a wordless silence, even as they descended into the building once again.


	7. The Third Day: False Dawn

I apologize for the delay of this upload. My task is done, however, and now I have competed the seventh piece for you. Enjoy.

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_Shadows beyond the Torchlight_

It had been a long time since Sir William Overbeck ventured into the belly of Ravenholm. In his boyhood, he had been fond of exploring the tunnels, looking for what he had once called lost treasures. That had all stopped the very day he started serving Ravenholm... but Bill had not forgotten. Though his memory had fogged, he had never forgotten his exploration. Now, the man followed the boy's tracks through the tunnels beneath the city.

While he was not proud to admit it to himself, he had no real plan of action beyond to strike down as many of the creatures as he could find without being slain himself. It was the plan he had operated by in his previous military occupation, in the absence of something more specifc. He had only rarely been left to his own devices in the field. That did not mean he was incapable of self direction. But even when he had been asked to lead, which was itself a rather common occurance, he had always been given something he needed to accomplish. Now, he was bereft.

There was no way that he would be able to reach the core elements of Ravenholm anymore. Not after this long. If his memory did not fail him, the gates would be shut and the only way in, would be across the heavily-defended walls. He could not enter the core from the tunnels, they had been purpose-built to prevent that. This meant his only way in, was to gain the walls somehow.

That would, usually, constitute an objective. Yet...

No sense sugarcoating it. He didn't want to go back. It was shameful, almost, but Bill was never a great liar, at least not to himself. Even now that he could reliably resume his duties... he didn't want to.

_Not so long ago you wanted to go back. What changed?_

For that, he had no answer. Nor did he want to bother finding one for it. Everything he had fought for in the city above was crumbling to the ground and damned if he could explain any of it. It all seemed pointless now, like he had been fighting for the sake of fighting... maybe that was the case. No matter.

The torch in his hand cast eerie shadows across the walls of the tunnels, and while Bill was never one prone to jump at every creepy thing, it made him uneasy. His problem could easily be solved by having a longer torch, the better to see what was before him and, if need be, combat any enemies before him all the faster. But he had no way to extend it, not for lack of desire. So there was nothing to do save to hold it as far from him as he could, and to hope.

Every sound in the tunnel echoed. His armored feet, often lost in a cacophany of noise be it a crowd or a battlefield, were now deafening in comparison. Each step made clanking, clicking noises, so many that if anyone else were down here, they would hear him long before he heard or saw them. Any movement at all was rewarded with that aggravating symphony, and he wished above all else at that moment to _make it stop._ It was too damn loud. Reminded him of creaking bones, in old people.

Despite the noise he made, however, he was glad that he was walking on stone- however damp and clammy- rather than the mud he knew must be down here. 'Mud' was hard to get out of the armor, it slipped into every crack and every-

At the edge of his torch's light, he saw something that made him lift his mace. Before he knew what he had seen, he recognized motion and swung accordingly, the great black silhouette of the mace flashing across his vision to land against something with a squelching noise. Whatever he had hit, it fell to the side with a wheezy groan. Cautiously, he drew closer, waving the torch over where it must have hit the ground. It was a tall, thin man, missing half his head now, dressed in nothing but a ragged loincloth. His bones were visible, and he looked to have starved down here.

The knight shook his head and carried on. It would have been too good to be true had he not found any of the beasts down here. But now, he needed to pick up the pace... he could not count on the fact that this one had only been roused by his presence, not his noise. There wasn't any way to make it quieter, other than to ditch his armor- something he would never do. All that remained to him, then, was to go faster.

It was a long time, perhaps an hour, before he at last reached an exit. Only a few of the creatures had come for him in the darkness, and though their grimy flesh had smeared across his armor, he was unharmed. He eventually arrived at a poorly-made wooden wall, no doubt intended to conceal the entrance from the other side rather than to actually keep people out. With a single good swing of his mace, the old wood splintered, and allowed him to pass into an old, similarly boarded-up home. From the appearance, it seemed that the people who had occupied this space were long gone... perhaps the wise few who fled before the gates slammed shut.

Whomever they had been and wherever they had gone, however, they'd left him a piss-poor hiding place. While it was very well fortified, in that it was free of any peek-holes from outside, it was stripped to the bone. Not even the raw materials were left behind, certainly nothing he could use. But it was, at the least, a place to take respite for a short while. With that in mind, the elderly knight slowly lowered himself to the floor, resting his head against one of the barren walls.

The temptation to close his eyes was alarmingly great, and vaguely, Bill understood that doing so was a tremendous risk. But before he was able to rouse himself, those eyes drifted shut, and he finally endured a restless, haunted sleep. No proper dreams nor nightmares visited him, rather a sense of...unease. Something was wrong.

Something was always wrong, by now.

When he at last awoke, his vision was blurry, and he had to remove his helmet to rub at his eyes, blinking slowly at the world around him.

_You fell asleep, you dumb bastard. Lucky no one came up and rang your bell._

His limbs were all of a sudden very, very heavy, and the armor rattled loudly as he tried to move. From the outside, it would have seemed that he was just groggy from his recent awakening. Within the armored shell, however, Bill was deathly afraid. Not of sleepiness, but of being so immobile, trapped under pounds and pounds of metal until he starved or worse.

His fear mounting, adrenaline flooded his veins and with a great huff, he forced himself to his feet. Slowly, his helmet turned from side to side, as if he were looking around to make sure that no one had noticed his panic. Of course, there was no one around, but that didn't make him feel any better about it.

Eager to get his mind off of his moment of weakness, he rolled his shoulders, creating a chorus of clicking noises as the armor shifted. Then he turned his gaze upon the boarded up wall. He wrapped his fingers around the grip of his mace, and raised it aloft. With a single step forward he brought the mace down across the flimsy boards, tearing through them with ease.

He stood closer, looking through the hole to see what might lie beyond.

The street that greeted his eyes was mostly clear. A few bodies shambled across it, turning this way and that, moving without direction. One was slumped against the wall, holding it's head in it's hands and growling to itself. Across that street was a door, no doubt leading into one of the towering compacts, with their living spaces so neatly packed together... and their numbers, almost certainly swelled by now.

Bill's head shook slowly from side to side, as though he were not alone in the room. It was not worth the risk. He would fight, but he wanted to _survive_ the fight, not perish under a mound of dead flesh. Not yet.

Slowly, he made to draw away from the hole, until caught his eye at the very edge of his vision. Up high, behind one of the broken windows, someone- or something- was moving.

Though he wanted to turn away, to avoid getting his hopes up, he found himself enraptured by the idea that someone might be alive. Perhaps more than that, though, was the tentative realization of purpose. If someone was alive, then he might again have something worth doing.

Still, he wasn't sure. It would do no good to rush over there if the only thing in that window was one of these beasts. So he waited.

Waited.

Nothing happened.

_Give me a sign you little bastard._

Eventually, Bill's patience ran out. He didn't have time to wait. The world wasn't going to stop spinning, and so Bill wasn't going to stop moving. The knight reared back and then, with a grunt, put his shoulder, then his head, and finally his body, all the way through the boarded-up windows before he thundered out onto the street.

Within moments, the sound of breaking wood drew the street's occupants towards him, growling like they were all animals. His eyes flew again to the window, and a thought came to him.

"Come and get me, you sons a' bitches! I'm waitin' for ya!" he roared. But not to the fiends descending upon him... no, he was yelling at the window. If someone was up there, they'd hear him. What they'd do next, well.. he hadn't thought of that.

He set about clearing the street with wide, powerful swings of his mace, the better to kill two with one strike. They didn't carry weapons, so he'd never need to worry about parrying or dodging again, except with the _big_ ones, like he'd fought earlier. These shrimp could only smear against his armor, then fall before his blows.

So he thought, at least. As much as he hated to admit it, he was getting careless. He didn't give a shit if they overwhelmed him, because he felt..

Strong.

For the first time in a long while, he was marginally more powerful than the creatures he was fighting. Not desperate for victory, not pleading for mercy nor scrabbling against the wall. He was _winning easily. _

He loved it.

But as they came for him, wave after wave, that feeling began to dissipate. His illusion of power was fading, because he was no longer the effortless victor. He was being drawn into that struggle, that uncertainty.

It was a harrowing few minutes, filled with bellows that came not from the creatures but from Bill himself. Now he was angry. They were trying to take something away from him.

It no longer mattered that he had won this fight, that he was practically bathing in the blood of his enemies. For that matter-

The door opened across the street from him. Slowly, cautiously, a pair of eyes peered out at him. Then the door shut, quickly and quietly. Bill took the chance to get closer, as stealthily as a knight in full armor could manage. He stopped, once he began to make out words.

The first voice was loud, and abrasive, definitely that of a man. "Well? What'd you see?" it demanded.

"This dude kitted out in armor... I think he might have seen me." A quieter voice, belonging to a different man.

"Dumbass. What good is the door if he _saw you?_" hissed the first. "Let's go. We can make it up the stairs before he gets in."

The two men were no doubt retreating away from him.

_The hell you are!_

Bill stepped forward, seizing the door and yanking it open before thundering into the building. "Stop!" he shouted at the fleeing figures. Only one looked back- a lean dark-skinned man with a pitchfork. There was a brief pause, before his compatriot hauled him up the stairs bodily, and Bill gave chase.

As he reached the top, he was met with a downward jab of the pitchfork. The dark-skinned man wasn't holding it- instead, a brutish figure with a vest and armored gauntlets was thrusting down at him. On instinct, he seized the shaft of the pitchfork and yanked on it hard, pulling it past him. Surprise flickered on the brute's face as he was hauled down, and before he could recover, Bill smashed his face with his metal-clad fist, knocking him face-first into the stairs.

"Listen, you, I didn't come all the way up here to fight you. But if you keep on-gaah!" The brute grabbed him and pulled, trying to haul the knight off his feet. For all his strength, however, he lacked technique- and Bill's mace educated him with a strike from the long grip, knocking him down the stairs.

"Interrupt me again, see what happens." Bill raised his mace, ready to strike the man down if he tried to attack again.

"Hey! Back off, man!" It was not the brute who called out, but the lean man, who now held a hand-axe tightly, raised over his head and ready to throw at Bill. "Let's all cool it for a minute!"

Bill looked towards him. Then, he lowered his mace. "...alright. Let's talk. If yer friend's done bein' an ape."

The brute grinned a savage grin, past a pair of bloody floes down his face and lips. "H'okay, tin man." From here, the man didn't seem quite sane.

"First off; names. Let's get names before we kill eachother. Sound good?" the lean man said. "I'm Louis, that's Francis."

"Call me Bill."

Louis nodded. "Alright, Bill. We didn't mean to piss you off. We're just... not having a lot of luck with people. You know? We were playin' it safe. But seein' as you didn't kill him... No hard feelings. Can we say that?"

Slowly, Bill nodded. "Yeah. We can say that."

Louis breathed a careful sigh of relief. "Now that's settled..." He paused, uncertain how to proceed. Then his eyes seemed to light up. His mouth opened, but Francis beat him to it.

"No, Louis. We don't need a third."

Bill's eyebrows shot up behind the helmet. He looked to Louis, who continued, undaunted. "How would you like to sign up with us? The more the merrier, right? We could use someone with your skill and..." He grinned, mostly because Francis couldn't see him. "Someone without _his_ temper." he added quietly.

"Damn it, Louis!" the brute known as Francis growled. "The fuck did I just tell you?"

"Look, man. Like it or not, we can use all the help we can get. If Bill's willing to come along, that means we're that much more likely to get out of this. Now I don't know about you, but I am certainly _not_ suicidal. So I'm gonna take everything I can." And just like that, Louis had buried what would have been the bru- Francis, what would have been his argument. The old knight immediately decided that he liked Louis.

"..I ain't got nothin better to do. Sure, I'll come with you." Bill rested his mace on his shoulder.

"Oh, sure, invite the whole goddamned kitchen while you're at it, Louis. I'm halfway to the fuckin' door, you know." spat Francis angrily. But despite his anger, he didn't retaliate once he got to his feet.

"I also know you ain't stupid, Francis. We can use the company." Louis nodded confidently. "Since we're down here, and we have the force, we may as well get back on the street."

"On the street?" Bill eyed him. "What're you after that's on the street?"

"Francis says there's a bunch of bolt-holes here and there through the alleys. If we can find somewhere to recuperate, we can make an actual plan for the future, instead of running from one place to the other. Sound good to you?"

Bill nodded. "Good start. Are we just gonna look until we find one, or d'ya have a particular spot in mind?"

"We're just gonna have to look." Louis sighed. "It isn't as good as I'd like, but hey- we gotta start somewhere. You go first. I'm not as durable as you."

The knight descended down the stairs again, brushing past Francis and making sure not to rub shoulders with him. "You ready?"

Louis gave an enthusiastic "Yea! Lets do this." from behind him. Then they stepped out into the street, now three men where there were once only two. Though Francis shot him more than one dirty look as the walked, but Bill had a suspicion that he was either willing to drop it, or too stupid to be a threat if he acted on it.

But that was neither here nor there. Until Francis acted, he did not need to think on it. For now, he would take to his task; finding shelter.

It was a beautiful thing, not necessarily because it was a good idea, but because he had found a distraction. Not quite a purpose, but it was close.

He would enjoy it while it lasted, then.


End file.
